


can't taste the blood (i taste the iron)

by shatteredhourglass



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [6]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Begging, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Caning, Communication, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Clint Barton, Dom/sub, Getting Together, Insensitive Hydra Jokes, M/M, Natasha Is Simultaneously The Best Bro And A Bastard Woman, POV Clint Barton, Painplay, Protective Steve Rogers, Sadism, Safeword Use, Safewords, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, Subspace, but he's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 03:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20464019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t want to dominate the Winter Soldier?” Natasha’s voice is dry. He scowls at her. She knows, she knows this is a half-baked fantasy he’s been carrying around ever since they brought Barnes in and Clint got a good look at the guy, but it was always just that.Just a fantasy.





	can't taste the blood (i taste the iron)

**Author's Note:**

> Explanation of the 'safeword use' tag: Bucky calls yellow because of something Clint says, they stop, Clint checks and they resume at Bucky's demand.

“I want you to hurt me.”

Clint blinks slowly, wonders if that drink Thor gave him last night was spiked with something.

Hallucinatory drugs from an Asgardian god seem more likely than the alternative, which is that Bucky Barnes is actually _here_, sitting in his lounge area in the Tower. Clint blinks again and nope, still there, settled in the same spot he usually takes when they play Call of Duty, in a red flannel that’s pushed up to his mismatched elbows. The messy half-bun is a nice touch, a few wisps of dark hair curling around his face.

The steaming mug of coffee is possibly an even _more_ alluring object, and Clint shuffles over to stand in front of it. Then he pokes it carefully with one finger. Hmm. Feels solid enough. He picks it up and takes a sip. It tastes real enough, and if it’s a hallucination it’s a very good one.

“Clint?”

“Gimme a second,” Clint mumbles into the coffee, folds himself down into a sitting position on the carpet. When the mug is half-empty he looks up and Possibly-Real-Bucky is scowling at him. It’s too threatening to be a dream, which means this _is_ real and Bucky is here.

Clint mentally rewinds the conversation. “If you just want to go to the gym and spar, it can wait. Call me when it’s not so fucking early, Barnes, Christ.”

“It’s noon, Barton,” Bucky says.

Clint turns and squints at the clock next to the television. Five past twelve. “Like I said. Early.”

There’s a very resigned sigh from Bucky’s direction. Clint turns back to him with a raised eyebrow, pulls the coffee back to his lips. Bucky lets him proceed uninterrupted, although there’s a distinctly displeased aura radiating from his spot on the couch. Clint stays on the floor.

He wonders what’s so important that Bucky had to come see him now, and not wait until Clint showed up in the communal space. Clint’s not sure that Bucky has ever shown up on his floor without Clint inviting him. Not that he has a _problem_ with it in any way, but it’s new. Unexpected. Now he’s looking, Bucky’s not fidgeting but it looks like he _should_ be. Anxious, maybe.

“What’s this about, Bucko?”

Bucky looks frustrated. “I already told you.”

“That’s not an explanation,” Clint says. “It’s a demand. Didn’t Hydra teach you any manners?”

“Fuck off,” Bucky retorts, and it’s funny that he doesn’t even bat an eyelid at Clint’s insensitive comments. Maybe he just doesn’t want to be treated with kid gloves. Bucky’s frown deepens and he looks back at Clint for a second, looks away again. “Not like sparring. Like.”

He doesn’t elaborate any more than that, but Clint’s brain chooses that moment to piece together Bucky’s words, and his refusal to make eye contact, and the faint blush on his cheeks. _Oh_. That kind of hurting. Huh. That’s… _interesting_, to say the least. It explains why Bucky’s just materialized in his space during this time, when everyone else is usually out.

All thought of getting up to refill his mug is pushed aside in favour of delving more into this.

“I _like_ the pain,” Bucky mutters, voice full of anxiety and barely-hidden longing. “It’s- grounding, sometimes. Stops me thinking.”

Clint leans forward, his elbows braced on the coffee table so he can look up into Bucky’s face. It’s kind of difficult with the way Bucky’s trying to hide behind his hair, but after a few seconds his eyes flick up to Clint’s face. There’s nothing there that sparks any concern in him. Clint prides himself on being able to read people and all he can pick up from Bucky is nerves and a little embarrassment, which is understandable given the situation they’re in.

Bucky’s gaze swerves away from him a second later, fixes on a point somewhere out the window.

“Why haven’t you asked Steve about this?”

Bucky looks pained. “You think Steve would do _this?_ To _me?”_

“Okay, fair,” Clint relents. Steve’s extremely soft for Bucky - not to say that Clint _isn’t_, but Steve is on a whole other level. Steve couldn’t even hurt him when Bucky was trying to _kill_ him. The local hospital still has records of the man being sent in with wounds that would kill an ordinary human. It’s stressful. So yeah, Clint gets it. Steve wouldn’t lay a hand on Bucky even if Bucky begged him for it, and Bucky doesn’t seem like the begging kind anyway.

It makes Clint think about what had happened with Loki. God, if Natasha wasn’t so willing to kick his ass. He’d never have forgiven himself if something had happened to her. Bucky probably feels the same way about Steve.

“He’d just- he'd just think I want it for _punishment_, as some kind of payback for what I did as the Soldier. He doesn’t get it,” Bucky says.

“And you think I do,” Clint answers slowly. Bucky's right in his assessment, but. Does something about him give it away? He hasn’t worn the _ouch is not a safeword_ shirt in front of Bucky, he’s fairly sure. It’s at his apartment in Bed-Stuy, on the floor somewhere. “Why me? What about Nat?”

“Ew,” Bucky replies instantly, forehead creasing.

Clint can't help but snicker at that because oh, poor Natasha. Ew. Fuck, that’s funny. He hasn’t seen such a big rejection towards Nat since- well, ever, really. He wonders whether she'd be offended or relieved. 

“I talked to her and she said that you were- that you had _experience_ with this kind of thing. Look, if you don’t want to, it’s fine,” Bucky continues, talking a little too fast. Shit, he can’t read Clint’s inner thoughts, he thinks it’s a rejection. “I just thought you might- nevermind. I’ll go.”

“Fucking Natasha,” Clint mutters under his breath.

Bucky stands up, looks like he’s about to bolt and Clint has to reach across the table, get ahold of his wrist. It’s the metal one, and if Bucky was _really_ intent on escaping then there’s no way Clint could hold him. As it is, he stills immediately, looks down at Clint’s fingers wrapped around the steel. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and Clint thinks _hmm_, __lets go of him.

“Stay,” he says, puts an edge into his voice.

Bucky stays. It’d be more accurate to say he _relaxes_, some of the nerves washing out as he sits back down. Clint tucks that information away for later and tries to focus on what he’s actually been asked to do. It was more of an order, really, but Clint isn’t really one for obeying those so he’s taking it as a request. “If you’re trusting me with this then you have to tell me what you want, so I can do it _right_.”

“I told you,” Bucky mutters. “I want you to-”

“-to hurt you, yeah, I’ve got my hearing aids in,” Clint interrupts. “But I need you to elaborate. Is it about the amount of pain? Does the _type_ of pain matter? Because I’m not doing anything that’ll cause major damage. What do you want me to use?”

Not that Clint _could_ cause major damage to a goddamn supersoldier, but he’s not taking any chances. Steve would have his fucking head cut off for doing anything to Bucky. Hell, he’d probably kill Clint for _allowing_ this. Clint’s more inclined to let Bucky decide what he wants, though, for better or for worse. The guy’s allowed to make his own mistakes, and there’s no consequences beyond the obvious with Clint, who can defend himself and won’t judge.

“No knives. Nothing that’ll cut,” Bucky says. His voice is a little muffled because he’s hiding his face in his hand, but at least he’s giving Clint a little more to work with. “No needles.”

“That’s easy enough,” Clint answers, leans back. “Do you want sharper pain in a short span of time or something broader that’s going to last?”

“I don’t _know_.” He sounds a little frustrated. “I don’t remember. Marks. Marks are good. Bruising.”

“It's okay if you don't know yet,” Clint says, taking pity. It’d be cruel to grill him on things he doesn’t remember. Clint's not even sure he _can_ bruise a supersoldier, but he can try. “I’ve got experience, you know what's going on in your brain, I’m sure we can work it out between us.”

One blue eye peeks out at him from steel fingers. “You’re okay with this?”

“There’s a reason Natasha sent you to _me_ and not anyone else,” Clint reasons. “I’m- it’s kind of surprising, sure, but if it’s something you need then I can do it for you. Not a hardship, really.”

Bucky looks slightly surprised by that, too. “It’s not-?”

“I mean, I want to help you, but _I_ like it too. ‘s why Tasha sent you to me,” Clint says to him, reaches out to poke at Bucky’s knee with his bare toes. “You’re mind-searingly hot and I’m a trained sadist anyway. You should know by now that I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”

“You- think I’m hot?”

“Duh,” he answers, feels a smile curl at his lips. “You could probably wash your hair a little more, but hey, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

“Says the man with the bird’s nest on his head,” Bucky grumbles. His hair’s not that bad, really. Clint just likes teasing him.

“At least I go with my theme,” Clint says. “Maybe you should paint a snowflake on that arm, follow my lead.”

Bucky snorts and the last of the anxiety fades from him, which was what Clint was aiming for. He wants Bucky to be comfortable, if this is going to be a thing that happens. It might even be a regular thing, if it works for Bucky - god knows the authorities won’t let him do any fighting to take the edge off. Officially, the guy isn’t even allowed to leave the Tower. They’ve snuck him out a few times for pizza and other trivial things, but nothing that’d scratch this particular itch.

“Alright,” he says, stretches his arms over his head. “You woke me up, you can make breakfast. Chop chop, Barnes.”

“Your arms broken, Barton?”

Bucky says the words with enough sarcasm to kill a man, but he still gets up and makes his way over to the kitchen. Clint looks up at the ceiling and tries not to smirk too hard when he hears the pots and pans clatter in the cupboards.

“I know you’re behind this,” Clint grumbles.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Natasha says smoothly, from her position sitting on his bathroom counter. He doesn’t look at her until he’s done setting the canes in the bathwater he’s run, and then he twists around to sit on the edge of the tub, arms folded. She doesn’t look even slightly intimidated, but that’s Natasha. Clint’s not very intimidated by her, either.

Clint grabs his phone, shoots off a text without saying anything else. **tomorrow okay?**

The response is immediate, like Bucky had been waiting for it. Hell, maybe he had been. He’d seemed pretty pent-up yesterday, and Clint gets it, that itching sensation under the skin that won’t go away without some specific relief. **Yes. Do I need to bring anything?**

**just that fine ass :)**, he sends back, hopes it earns him a smile back even if he can’t see it.

“Are you trying to tell me that you _don’t_ want to dominate the Winter Soldier?” Natasha’s voice is dry. He scowls at her. She _knows_, she knows this is a half-baked fantasy he’s been carrying around ever since they brought Barnes in and Clint got a good look at the guy, but it was always just that. Just a fantasy. Something he’d think about idly when he was jerking off in the shower, not something that he’d ever have to think about.

Clint looks back at the canes soaking. Sighs. “Nat, this is too much pressure. What if I fuck up?”

A toothbrush bounces off his head, lands on the tiles next to him. “This is one of the rare things you put _effort_ into, Clint. You’re good at this.”

“He’s been through so much,” Clint mutters. “What if he decides he doesn’t want this and it goes sideways? Steve’s going to kill me.”

“Bucky can defend himself,” Natasha says. “It’s not like he’s helpless.”

Clint thinks about how easily Bucky had followed his instructions, feels his skin crawl. What if he’s reading this all wrong? What if it _is_ some sort of Hydra thing and he’s just encouraging it and pulling Bucky out of recovery and back into Asset mode? Fuck Steve’s wrath, Clint’s going to shoot himself if that’s the case. He hadn’t _thought_ that it was, but he could be wrong.

He’s wrong a startlingly high amount of the time.

“Clint.” Natasha’s voice is sharp enough that he looks up, catches the glint in her eyes. “He came to you because he trusts you. He trusts you to let him decide what _he_ wants, regardless of his past, regardless of what _other_ people,” _Steve_, he knows without saying, “might say, you’re doing the right thing for him, because you’re letting him decide.”

“I’m letting him decide to let me decide,” Clint says. “It’s- that’s a lot, Nat.”

“Don’t fuck it up, then,” she says, like it’s easy.

Hell, maybe it is.

Clint realizes he hasn’t specified a particular time when he wakes up the next day, but Bucky doesn’t show up in the early hours of the morning like he’s half-expecting.

It actually _helps_. He wakes up at ten, drinks two entire pots of coffee and eats the cold Chinese in the fridge. It might’ve been mouldy - he hopes it wasn’t, although his stomach is used to the bad treatment by now. A clean pair of sweatpants are located after he decides that comfort is important, and looking non-threatening probably helps with making a distinction between the bad guys in Bucky’s past and Clint.

Then he tries to clean. It _sort_ of works. His floor is less like a nuclear disaster area and more of a house that might be doubling as a junkyard in its spare time. The time he spends also ends up doubling as time for him to drift down into the right headspace, and by the time FRIDAY alerts him to a visitor the world has gone cold and sharp with focus.

Clint’s not sure what expression is on his face, but it makes Bucky swallow.

“Hey,” he says.

Bucky’s dressed soft too, and at his size Clint’s not sure how he got a hoodie _that_ baggy but it’s surprisingly cute. He hasn’t gone for the updo this time, and he’s barefoot to top it all off. Interesting. He’s also fidgeting a little bit, enough to display nerves but not enough that Clint’s convinced something is wrong.

“You want a drink? I’ve got… coffee. And coffee,” Clint adds. Wow, he’s a bad host. “Sorry. My skills mostly revolve around hitting people, not wine and dine.”

“I already knew that,” Bucky answers, shifts on his feet. “Can we just- ?”

Clint feels the smirk slide onto his face, slow and heated. “Impatient, Barnes?”

“Yes,” Bucky says abruptly.

The brutal honesty makes Clint snort. He’s nothing if not willing, though, so he makes an obliging gesture towards the bedroom. Bucky’s eyes flick away from him and then back, something intense in his gaze. He does walk to the bedroom though, following Clint’s directions without another word. Clint trails after him, thinks about physically pushing the residual nerves away from himself.

“You’re still okay with this? This is what you want?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t,” Bucky answers with impatience in his voice. It’s edging on frustration and Clint walks past him to open his wardrobe door, revealing the various BDSM implements. Some of it is a little torturous-looking, he’ll admit, but Bucky doesn’t comment on it. Clint picks up one of the canes hanging up and turns around again.

When he looks, Bucky’s eyes are dark. He licks his lips slowly and Clint’s eyes get stuck on the sliver of tongue he sees. _Christ_, that’s distracting. The desire to ruin Bucky entirely rises up like a tidal wave and he has to beat it back, remind himself that this isn’t about him, as much as he likes it.

“You got a safeword, Bucky? Do you know what a safeword_is?”_

Bucky scowls at him, then looks away. “I Googled.”

“That’s a good start,” Clint relents, hopes that he’s been reading the safer stuff and not the idiot doms who don’t know what they’re doing. “And?”

“I can’t think of one,” Bucky says. “It feels- I don’t know. Weird. Codewords are weird.”

“Alright,” Clint replies. “I’m not doing this without _something,_ though. Did Google tell you about the traffic light system? Green is go, yellow is pause and reassess, red is stop entirely. Can you do that?”

Bucky nods. Clint doesn’t move, just looks at him steadily until he gets an uneasy look. His point must come across, though, because Bucky lets out a sigh and stops fidgeting. “Yes.”

“That’s good,” Clint says and his voice comes out a little softer than he means for it to be, a little _too_ fond. It gets a good reaction, anyway, and he gets to enjoy the way Bucky’s shoulders drop from the tense position they’d been in. “Alright, let’s get this on the road. Make sure you let me know what you’re feeling and if there’s any problems.”

Bucky doesn’t answer him verbally this time, just edges towards the bed. Clint’s changed the sheets from his normal stained covers - grey, soft cotton that’s worn into a satisfying texture, and it seems to please Bucky based on the way he runs his fingertips over it. Then he gets down on the bed, leans over with his elbows braced on the duvet. It’s a nice view with his ass up in the air, but it’s not necessary.

“Lie down properly,” Clint directs, and Bucky glances up at him curiously. “I don’t want this to feel like it’s a punishment. It’s just stress relief, alright? No heavy stuff this time, or ever, if you don’t want it. You can be comfortable.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, but he looks a little relieved as he straightens up. “Should I take my pants off?”

“Only if you want to,” Clint says. He’s not going to overstep too many boundaries here. That doesn’t mean, however, that he isn’t going to whistle appreciatively when Bucky kicks off his skinny jeans and underwear. Clint’s about ninety percent sure those are Captain America boxers, but now isn’t the time for teasing. He catches the edge of Bucky’s smile through the veil of hair, thinks maybe he wasn’t supposed to see it.

The hoodie goes as well, a second later.

It’s pretty cute, though. He tests the cane against his forearm, watches Bucky twitch a little at the sound. That supersoldier hearing must come in handy for things like this. The sting is satisfying enough, but he hits a few more times to get the feel for it, thinks about how it’d feel for someone with a higher pain threshold.

Clint’s about to ask if he’s ready and then remembers the frustration from earlier. Bucky’s probably had enough of being questioned about wanting this.

Natasha was right, he’s got to trust Bucky on this.

“Alright,” Clint says, more to himself as he steps into a better position. Like this, Bucky’s laying facedown so there’s not a lot of opportunity to read his facial expressions. Clint hopes that Bucky’s going to actually use his words for this - the guy’s not talkative at the best of times. These things only work with good communication, though, so if it’s going to work then Bucky’s going to have to talk.

Bucky’s ass is - not bad, not bad at all, it’s a _real_ nice view but Clint’s supposed to be focusing, so he lines it up and snaps the cane down onto the bare skin in front of him with a little more force than he’d use for a normal person. The reaction is instant, Bucky jerking underneath the hit and then making a quiet noise. Clint strikes again.

Bucky gasps. “Oh, _shit.”_

Clint waits, but he doesn’t provide any more than that, other than slightly squirming against the duvet. It had sounded like a positive curse rather than a negative, so Clint gives it a few seconds and then he drags the rattan across Bucky’s ass a few inches, a careful warning before he hits again. It makes a nice, solid sound and he rides out the heavy pulse of satisfaction, moves the cane’s position again before he resumes.

Bucky takes it _beautifully. _He’s squirming even more now, face pressed hard into the sheets.

It doesn’t do anything to muffle the desperate-sounding inhales of breath, but it’s a nice view. He’s got his right hand fisted hard in the duvet, holding on like it’s keeping him from falling apart.

"That's good," Clint breathes. "You're doing good, Buck."

Clint’s had a lot of masochists in his hands over the years but he’s never felt the rush of it hit him quite this hard. He starts talking after the first five, fills in the spaces between the hits with a little bit of praise, just a steady stream of words to help keep Bucky grounded. It’s also for Clint’s benefit - he’s worried it’s going to slip back into Hydra territory somehow and knowing Bucky can hear his steady stream of word-vomit makes _him_ reassured.

He’s only putting his elbow into the hits and not his whole arm, and even with the harder hits it’s nowhere near the full force he can actually unleash. Clint’s making sure he stings without drawing blood. Still, Bucky’s making soft overwhelmed gasps and shifting underneath him and it’s good.

It’s _absurdly_ good, actually, and Clint’s getting closer without meaning to so he can get a better view.

“’s pretty,” he says absently, and Bucky’s hips jerk roughly into the mattress. _Huh_. He traces along a red mark with the tip of the wood and Bucky jerks again, so much that he nearly dislodges the cane altogether. “You want me to help you stay still? I’ve got ropes somewhere.”

Bucky inhales sharply. “Yellow.”

Clint pauses, looks at him. “No restraints?”

“No restraints,” Bucky agrees, his voice rough.

“Alright. That’s good, Bucky,” he says. “That’s real good, letting me know. You want to stop?”

“No,” Bucky bites out, but he’s trembling a little bit. It’s barely visible, really - unfortunately for Bucky, he’s selected the one Avenger on the team known for ridiculously good eyesight. “Don’t stop.”

Clint switches the cane to his right hand, runs his left over the red marks he’s left already. They’re splendidly uniform, his brain singing with pride at the even work. He’s not willing to take it too far on the first try - if Bucky needs more then there’s always time for another try, but there’s nothing that can be done if he pushes the guy off the edge completely.

Bucky pushes up into his hand, though, lets out a sigh when Clint digs his fingertips in a little.

Clint doesn’t do anything else, though, just watches the lines of his back and traces along a red line. He drops the cane and Bucky must hear the sound and recognize it because he makes a bereft sound, twists around so he can stare at Clint pleadingly.

“_Please,_” he chokes out and it’s so _desperate_ that Clint has to bite at the inside of his cheek. He can’t even see the blue in Bucky’s eyes anymore. “Clint, come on.”

“I don’t want to overdo it,” Clint admits, rubs his fingers over the marks again. “You’re already pretty high, baby.”

“Please,” Bucky repeats. "I _need_ it, Clint, please."

Clint is pretty indulgent with Bucky in day-to-day life; it’s usually him that sneaks Bucky out of the Tower, and he’s passed over the last cup of coffee more than once without even being asked. This situation isn’t any different, because while he’s not going to pick up the cane again, he’s never really been able to say no to Bucky. Especially because Bucky’s asked so _nicely_.

It’s not a hard hit by any means, but it still makes a nice _crack_ when his hand hits soft flesh.

Even better than that is that Bucky cries out when Clint slaps his ass, a shocked noise bleeding through as his voice wobbles dangerously. It’s _gorgeous_, and Clint says as much as he’s pressing into the marks again, drags another broken noise from Bucky’s lips.

He actually gets _more_ of a reaction from spanking from Bucky, thinks that maybe it isn’t about the _amount_ of pain at all.

Bucky gets even more responsive after the first slap, almost sobbing into the sheets as Clint pauses between hits to rub at the already-forming bruises. Clint doesn’t make him count, just lets him feel it and react - partially for Bucky’s benefit but also because he’s pretty sure he’s never been this turned on during a scene in his _life_.

It feels like the air’s buzzing with his arousal and he gets to ten hits before he realizes Bucky’s rutting into the mattress. God, that’s a compliment and a half. Clint can’t help the soft, fond laugh as he digs blunt nails into reddened flesh, feels the muscles shift under his fingers as Bucky thrust harder. It can’t be comfortable but he’s going for it anyway, still making those incredibly hot noises.

“You want some help there?”

Bucky shoves his ass a little harder against Clint’s hand, a wordless demand. Clint lets his fingers drift, just barely brushes over his hole just to watch the way Bucky whines for it, tries to push into it.

Clint goes back to pressing against the red stripes on his asscheeks, doesn’t give in the slightest when Bucky turns his head to glare. It’s the weakest attempt Clint’s ever seen, not even close to the murderous look he can usually cook up. It’s- _cute_, really. Endearing.

“Please,” Bucky grits out, and it’s nearly inaudible.

“I’m not hitting you again,” Clint says, keeps playing with the marks as he makes steady eye contact. He doesn’t leave any room for argument in his voice - his indulgence only goes so far.

Bucky’s gaze is hazy but his lips curl down slightly as he presses his face into the sheets again. He’s still rolling his hips, makes a soft noise when Clint digs his fingers in again. “Not that. Want you to fuck me.”

It sounds like it’s been punched out of him and Clint stops as the words soak into his brain. Thinks about getting his dick in there, fucking Bucky hard and relentless until he’s ruined the man completely beyond repair. He pictures coming messy on the red marks he’s already left, like he’s laying _claim_ and that’s what pulls him back to reality.

“We didn’t discuss that, Buck,” he says softly. Bucky seems enthusiastic enough now, but there’s no way to tell if he’s going to feel that way later. He’s coming off of a year-long dry spell and he’s higher than hell from the pain. Clint’s not taking that kind of risk, as much as he’s enjoying the idea.

Bucky takes the refusal without any verbal complaint, although he squirms down against the mattress again.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t get off,” Clint offers, because he’s still easy for Bucky even if he’s being the responsible one. “Just that I won’t fuck you.”

He squeezes the handful of ass he’s got a grip on and Bucky’s next breath sounds like he’s dying, like Clint’s peeling him apart with the pain and it’s _glorious_. Clint watches as Bucky shifts frantically, gets braced on his left elbow as the right one slides down to fist at his dick. And sure, Clint can’t see that _particular_ view with where he’s standing, but the shuddering sigh Bucky makes is great anyway.

Clint can still see the movements of his arm, can tell Bucky’s jerking himself off hard and fast. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he’s caused this.

Bucky sobs, rubs his face against the sheets and he sounds so _close_ already that Clint’s high off of it as well, some mix of secondhand arousal and vicious pride swirling around in his gut. He makes a split-second decision, hopes it’s the right one.

The hard slap lands directly over the series of marks he’s made with the cane and Bucky nearly screams as he comes, every inch of his body clenching up.

It’s _incredibly_ hot. Clint rubs his fingers over the marks again, lets Bucky come down slowly as he watches the muscles unwind. He's shaking still, but it seems more out of relief than anything bad. Eventually Bucky slumps into the sheets bonelessly with a sigh, and Clint can’t quite stifle the grin he feels tugging at his mouth.

“You good?”

“Mmh,” Bucky says, or at least that’s what Clint thinks he says. It’s hard to tell when Bucky’s got his mouth up against the sheets.

Clint lets his fingers drift up Bucky’s back, presses gently along the curve of his spine. It feels dangerous somehow, like he’s overstepping boundaries. Bucky doesn’t seem particularly bothered, though, and when Clint steps away to get the bottle of Gatorade he’s left on the bedside table he turns back to see Bucky trying to grab for him with one badly-directed hand.

The hand recedes once Bucky registers that Clint’s watching him. It’s kind of _late_ for that, though, and Clint’s grinning like an idiot. It’s weird to think that Bucky might be a cuddler, but it’s definitely welcome.

“_Baby,_” he says, with far too much feeling. It’s a lot, being allowed to see Bucky like this. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Are you going to drop this if I give it to you to drink?”

Bucky takes the obnoxiously-bright liquid from him once Clint takes the cap off, and Clint waits until he’s sure Bucky’s hand is steady enough before he lets go and starts rummaging for the wet wipes. He’s put them in the top drawer of the dresser and they’re Captain America-themed, which earns him a soft snort. Clint takes a minute to breathe, because _he’s_ still trying to recover from what just happened, and then he turns back to Bucky.

He’s still holding the Gatorade upright, but he hasn’t made an effort to drink it.

Bucky seems more interested in just laying there like a wet noodle, and that’s fair enough, really. Clint still takes the bottle from him, though, and then rolls him onto his side. Bucky twitches when the wet wipe touches his bare stomach, but allows it and sinks back against the bed as Clint cleans him up as gently as he can.

He swipes at the tear tracks he can see too, just with his thumb, but Bucky’s lips lift up in a barely-there smile when he does it.

“I’m guessing you don’t want numbing cream?” He asks the question as he’s maneuvering Bucky under the sheets - the duvet is a lost cause at this point, and Clint couldn’t care less - and Bucky makes a noise that’s decidedly negative. It’d defeat the point if he wants the pain, Clint supposes. 

He gets ahold of the bottle of Gatorade and fixes Bucky with a Look. Bucky sighs but accepts a few mouthfuls and Clint decides he can deal with that, as long as Bucky isn’t about to drop.

And he doesn’t.

Bucky’s probably got a lot of triggers - hell, _Clint’s_ got a lot of triggers, they’re both ticking time bombs - but all he seems to want right now is human contact. He’s doing _surprisingly_ well considering his history, and Clint thinks dismally that Natasha was right, once again. Not that he’s complaining, but her ego is too big already.

Clint ends up sitting against the headboard of the bed with Bucky half-in his lap, thankfully not aware enough to care about Clint's dick poking him. Clint's ignoring it as well - this isn't about him, as much as it feels like he's on fire. As he’s carding his fingers through sweat-damp strands he realizes Bucky’s never looked truly _relaxed_, not for a single moment in the Tower. There’s always been tension in the set of his shoulders, he’s always scanning around the room for threats.

And yet.

“You’re okay?”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, rubs his forehead against Clint’s clothed stomach. “Great.”

He falls asleep a few seconds later, a blissful little smile on his lips, and Clint’s heart feels a little too full with all the emotions that gives him. _That’s a lot,_ he’d said to Natasha, and he’d been right. It is a lot.

“Do you know where Bucky went last night?”

“Hmm?”

Clint doesn’t give Steve any more than that, just finishes filling his mug. It gives him time to school his face into something neutral before he turns around. Steve’s not looking at him, anyway. Clint reaches around him for the cup he’s already poured, tries not to jump back when Steve _does_ look at him thoughtfully.

“He never goes anywhere,” Steve says. “And then he disappears for most of yesterday and the whole night, and now he’s… like that.”

Clint looks over at that, snorts at the sight he’s presented with. Bucky’s sprawled out on the couch like a cat in a nice patch of sun, all bedhair and splayed legs and soft, pleased smirk. He looks both _extremely_ pleased with himself and also like he’s been hit by a truck, a little bit, but in the good way.

Bucky stretches his arms out, squirms against the couch cushions comfortably, and Steve folds his arms over his chest. “Do you think - could he be taking _drugs?”_

“Steve,” Clint says, taking pity. “Buddy. Pal. Would drugs even _do_ anything to him?”

“...probably not,” Steve agrees reluctantly. “But it's still strange.”

“Hey, if he’s happy,” Clint answers as he shrugs one shoulder. “Nat says we have to trust him to know what he wants.”

A light comes on in Steve’s eyes. “Natasha! Of _course_, she’ll know what’s going on. Sorry, Clint, I’ve got to go.”

“God bless his tunnel vision where you’re concerned,” Clint says as he drops down on the couch, passes over the extra cup to Bucky’s waiting hands. He’d feel bad, but Natasha deserves it. She caused this situation, she can explain the gory details to Steve or she can lie her ass off. Either way, Clint wins.

“I don’t know when he became the mother hen in this relationship,” Bucky grumbles, tucks his bare feet under Clint’s thigh. His toes are fucking _cold_. “That used to be _my_ job.”

“I think you’ve got enough on your plate,” Clint reasons, starts running his fingers over Bucky’s clothed knee. “Maybe leave the Steve-wrangling to Sam and Natasha for now, yeah?”

“I guess,” Bucky relents, leans his head back against the armrest. He must shift the wrong - or _right_, depending on how he’s feeling right now - way because he makes a quiet noise, squirms a little. Clint thinks about the hour they’d spent in the bathroom, quietly admiring the bruises standing out in stark relief against Bucky’s pale skin.

Clint must be making a face because Bucky snorts to himself, lips curling up in an amused smile. “What?”

“Do I count as ‘able to consent’ now, Barton?” He illustrates his point with extraordinarily sarcastic air quotes and Clint frowns at him. Bucky doesn’t seem too concerned, although there’s something quietly simmering in his eyes.

“Of course you do,” Clint says, puzzled. “What’re you talking about?”

Bucky moves then, steals Clint’s mug away and sets it down on the coffee table with his own. Clint allows it, although he’s not sure _why_. No one else gets to touch his coffee. Then Bucky’s shifting so he’s kneeling over Clint, not quite sitting in his lap but so close that Clint can feel the heat radiating off of him. Clint’s pinned in like this, which is curious but not particularly alarming.

“You said we hadn’t _discussed it,_” Bucky says, a little scornfully. “So we’re discussing it. Now.”

_Oh_. “Kind of bossy there, Bucko.”

Bucky - it’s too displeased to be a pout, but that’s the best word Clint can think to describe the look on his face. It’s not threatening, just endearing. Cute. Clint’s heart does that weird thing in his chest again. Bucky lets out a huff, settles down so he’s sitting on Clint’s thighs instead. It looks like he’s battling the urge to melt all over the couch again and Clint can’t help smirking.

“That’s- I feel the best I’ve felt in seventy years,” Bucky says and Clint’s dying a little bit. “I was gonna ask you out anyway, but this is- _fuck,_ I used to be good at this. Are you just interested in the BDSM stuff or do you- would you want to-?”

“Careful,” Clint says. “You’re going to bust something important in your brain. Don't want to end up like me.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky retorts, but it’s soft.

Clint reaches up to touch Bucky’s chest, splays his fingers out over the grey cotton. It’s one of his own sweaters, and it’s not like he hadn’t _hoped_ that this was where it was heading, but he’s still a little surprised about it. Bucky takes a breath and closes his eyes briefly, and when he opens them again he looks focused.

“I want you to keep slappin’ me around,” he says slowly. “And then I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t walk.”

Clint stares at him.

“Please?”

Bucky’s smirking at him a little bit, but he just looks bright and pleased and _happy_, and Clint thinks he might’ve ascended to the next realm just from that alone. Whatever doubts he’s had have vacated his brain entirely in the wake of that expression. Clint would be prepared to accept that he might’ve perished on a mission and this is heaven, but he’s fairly sure he’s headed downstairs, so this _must_ be real.

“Does that answer your questions, Rogers?”

Bucky’s eyes flick up and focus on something past Clint’s shoulder. Clint himself is freezing at Natasha’s words. Oh god. Oh _god_, he’s a dead man. If Natasha’s _here_, that means that __Steve __was probably with her, because Steve was going to _find_ Natasha, and if Natasha’s talking like _that_ \- how long have they been standing there?

Probably long enough to hear what they were talking about. Maybe if he starts running now, he’ll be able to jump out the window before Steve catches him. It’ll be a quick, relatively painless death from this height, unlike whatever Steve will do to him.

Unfortunately, Bucky’s blocking his exit.

His face must display the fear he’s feeling right now, because when Bucky looks back at him his expressions softens a little at the edges. It’s a sympathetic look, makes Clint feel marginally less panicked and then Bucky’s leaning in to kiss him briefly.

Bucky’s lips are softer than he expects, and _Clint_ feels like he’s going to melt when metal fingers cup his cheek.

“I’ll come by your room tonight? No cane required,” Bucky murmurs against his lips and Clint nearly misses them, he’s so distracted by the kiss.

“I. Uh,” Steve saysand Bucky sighs, gets off of Clint with some effort. Clint stays where he is, but he has enough presence of mind to turn and watch Bucky start to physically _drag_ a shell-shocked Steve out of the room.

“And you thought it’d turn out badly,” Natasha says from where she’s leaning in the doorway.

“It still could,” Clint answers doubtfully, but his heart isn’t in it.

Maybe he’ll survive this after all.

**Author's Note:**

> winterhawk bingo square: spanking (i may have gotten an inch and taken a mile there.)


End file.
